Freshly divorced. Everyone says they know what I need.

Split Happens: Tales of life after separation

It's a week after my divorce is final, and I'm in a bar. For most people, this would be a cliché, but I grew up Southern Baptist in a one-stoplight town where even drinking a beer raised suspicion. In 1987, when someone ratted the video store out for selling "adult" films in its back room, both the "white" church and the "black" church lined the street in silent protest. In big hair and big sleeves, I stood with my parents and imagined myself right in the middle of Footloose.

Today, my hair and shoulder pads are smaller, but that one, small fact remains. You can take the girl out of the Baptist church, but you can't take the Baptist church out of the girl. I told this to George, my rebound date, right after the birthday party when I tried to explain why we had to back off on being friends. I'm telling it now to my friend Jessica, but she's not listening. She has her own agenda. She's trying to friend-zone Donovan, who is sitting two bar stools away and scooting closer by the minute. It's the reason I'm here — to be a buffer — and because she thinks this environment will be good for me.

"No offense, but you just need to get laid," she says, loudly. Donovan tilts his head.

"She's not over her ex yet." He points at me with his drink. "It's going to take her 18 years to get over him." He says it as if, at 29, he knows all the answers. I hope to God he's wrong.

"Oh, she's over him." Jessica slides her arm around my shoulders. The slow creep of her hand makes me think of Jane Austen's Mary Crawford, play-acting with the virginal Fannie Price. "It's George she needs to get over."

"How long were you with George?" Donovan looks confused.

"She was never with George." Jessica rolls her eyes. "She fell in love with his mind. They flirted with literary quotes over their Facebook statuses."

"It was a crush — Jesus!" I put my Diet Coke down hard on the bar. "I'm good! My divorce is final, my business is going well, and I have no more crushes. Things are okay."

"I'm not saying 'Get into a relationship,'" says Jessica. "But have fun."

"That's not me," I say, and for the first time, realize how true it is. I'd rather be alone than do what they're suggesting. And I definitely don't want "to cougar it."

I never thought so many people would have advice on this matter. Or that people would come out of the woodwork to police my vagina. I picture my friends lining up, all dressed as police officers — well, except the one who actually is a police officer — and directing the oncoming traffic. They wave them past or try to wave them in, depending on their own moralities.

"You know you want to." Jessica sticks her tongue out at me. "Seriously, guys are easy. I bet you could get at least two of the guys here — especially if we tell them you're just divorced. Also, can I just say your boobs look fabulous from this angle?" Definitely Mary Crawford.

"What about that guy right there?" Donovan tilts his head again. I know who he's talking about. I saw the guy on the way in. "The one that's been staring at you for the past two hours."

I shake my head. "To be honest, I need to work. I'm on deadline." I pull out my laptop. Jessica snatches it. "Get her, Donovan!" She runs to a nearby table.

"What are you doing?" I lunge at her, but I already have an idea. "I only go on those websites for research!"

The men at the bar watch with a vague, wry interest, mostly because Jessica is beautiful. With long, brown curls, perfect proportions and strong, small waist, she's the kind of woman men drool over, and at 33, she's still single. She's also Pentecostal. Hanging out with her in a bar reminds me of my freshman year of college, when my roommate's date stormed out of our room and told another guy, "Don't waste your time with these two. They're just a couple of religious virgins." Twenty-five years later, I'm repeating history.

Here I am, a column to write, and Jessica has my laptop high above my head. Donovan has me. He holds me, tightly, but not so tightly that I couldn't escape if I wanted. It's the first time a man's arms have been around me since the birthday party, and the first time I've been held this tightly since I don't know when — and it's nice. It's more than nice. But not nice enough to compromise.

"Wait — what are you typing??" I wriggle around in Donovan's arms. Now I'm getting nervous.

"I'm just divorced and I'm really lonely," she says as she types.

I forget to use my inside voice. "Jessica!"

"Hahahaha, he replied." Jessica collapses into laughter.

"WHAT DID HE SAY????" I escape Donovan's hold. Donovan, who's still mumbling about the thirteen Davids. He's laughing, the guys in the bar are laughing, and now I'm laughing. We all look at the message.

"Girl, you don't have to be lonely. You tell me where you are and I'll be there. I can do everything your ex-husband never did for you."

"Oh my God, what did you write?" I cover my face. Jessica relinquishes the laptop and slides it across the table.

"You gonna do it?" Donovan and Jessica ask.

I peek out from my hands. The guy in the picture is attractive, although not as attractive as the 26-year-old who said he "is into elderly women" (I think he meant "older," but who knows) or the 33-year-old at Beans, my favorite coffee shop, who keeps offering to take my "marijuana virginity." But attraction alone just doesn't do it for me. It never has. I close the laptop.

It's strange being single again after so long, and it's easy to take everyone else's advice. It's easy to listen to everyone else's stories and read myself into them. But in the end, it's my value system that matters. In the end, if I compromise my values, it's my own respect I'll lose. I just never expected it to be this hard.

It was hard having these values in high school in the late '80s, and even harder in the '90s, when I was in college and, later, grad school. But now, in 2015, it feels anachronistic, as if it just doesn't make sense anymore.

I dread what will happen when I do start dating again for real, when I'll have to face the role that sex will have in my life, and decide how much or how little to redefine my boundaries. It's a struggle I never anticipated having, a question that, when I got married, I never thought I'd once again be facing. But face it I will, in my own time and my own way. And with someone who respects me. The question of when and if will be my choice and no one else's. Not a choice made in response to pressure. Not a choice made from loneliness.

I just never thought my morality would end up so awkward.

Kathryn M. Peterson is a freelance writer, editor and dissertation coach. "Split Happens" — a column about her separation and divorce — runs here on Fridays.